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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23888836">and they were r̶o̶o̶m̶m̶a̶t̶e̶s̶ quarantined</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hdnprplflwrs/pseuds/hdnprplflwrs'>hdnprplflwrs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>home [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Because I can't write a fic without angst, Bisexual Disaster Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Eventual Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gay Keith (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Oblivious Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Slow Burn, Slow Burn Keith/Lance (Voltron), Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Very Very Slow Burn, free lance from pining 2k20, keith gets hurt for one (1) minute, lance is suffering, mention of homophobia and xenophobia because some people are a--holes, pidge knows wassup</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:34:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,005</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23888836</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hdnprplflwrs/pseuds/hdnprplflwrs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Keith Kogane: wake up at six, paint for a bit, tutor some kids online, get some work done for his internship at Altea Tech, eat whatever his roommate of one and a half years made for breakfast, get more work done, eat lunch, paint more, work out, shower, have dinner with his roommate, either get work done or paint (it depended on the day), and then fall asleep either scrolling through social media or Netflix, also with his roommate.</p><p> </p><p>Then the quarantine happened.</p><p>[a lil quarantine fic to keep u company during quarantine]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Background Matt/Shiro - Relationship, Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>home [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738834</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>366</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and they were r̶o̶o̶m̶m̶a̶t̶e̶s̶ quarantined</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based on a <a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/relationship_advice/comments/fr7sct/my_21m_flatmate_20m_keeps_giving_me_lil_kisses/">reddit post</a> I found on Instagram. There's a lil scene where there's a xenophobic and homophobic man in there, so read with discretion. I had a lot of fun writing this, so hope you enjoy!!</p><p>[when Keith is talking to Iseul the italics are them talking in Korean, just a clarification lmao-- please tell me if either the Spanish/Korean is incorrect in this fic so I can fix it! Thanks!]</p><p>Edit 07.0.20: Anne commented some great help with my Spanish, so all parts are for the most part fixed!! If there’s any Korean speakers, please let me know if there’s anything wrong! I also fixed a weird thing with the plot that’s been bugging me for weeks, so that’s been updated, too.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A day in the life of Keith Kogane: wake up at six, paint for a bit, tutor some kids online, get some work done for his internship at Altea Tech, eat whatever his roommate of one and a half years made for breakfast, get more work done, eat lunch, paint more, work out, shower, have dinner with his roommate, either get work done or paint (it depended on the day), and then fall asleep either scrolling through social media or Netflix, also with his roommate.</p><p>It worked for the two of them. Lance also worked at Altea Tech, but was interning for another sector that required him to go to the office building daily, something Keith was glad he missed out on. He also took the late college classes at Garrison University, leaving Keith with an empty apartment on the outskirts of a town in the middle of nowhere, Arizona, from six to nine until Lance got back. At least on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays were Lance’s homework days, which meant it was easier to work while Lance lectured him as a form of studying. (Keith stopped at his associates degree but Lance’s chosen track wasn’t too far away from Keith’s. Keith could just write off what he learned from Lance as outside material.) Weekends were always painting days. Keith didn’t particularly care what Lance got up to on the weekend, just so long as there was dinner in the fridge.</p><p>Surprisingly, they got along well. Keith did dishes while Lance cooked. Keith cleaned the bathroom and did laundry while Lance dusted and vacuumed. It was a system that Keith could work with, so he did.</p><p>One point of contention in the beginning was how many hours Keith slept. Keith operated on his own fucked-up schedule before he met Lance McClain in which he would often find himself sleeping sitting up, still staring at his easel with a brush in hand.</p><p>(Thank god he used oils.)</p><p>The third time Lance caught him sleeping at his easel, he had received an earful about not even having a bed (he had a sleeping bag on the floor; he’s slept on worse; he didn’t particularly care) and then before he could even get a word in edgewise to his defense, Lance had pushed him onto his own bed (which was too comfy for this world) and thrown the remote to his TV at his face.</p><p>Watching TV or Netflix had then become part of the System from then on. Keith no longer bothered sleeping in his own room, instead converting his own room into a proper art studio and sleeping in Lance’s bed (that was another argument in itself, resolved only when Keith insisted on buying groceries). Lance managed to fit a king bed in his room (which didn’t leave space for much else) but it worked within the System so Keith Allowed It to Happen. They often left their snacks in the middle of the bed anyways, usually on accident, which acted as a separator so Keith could imagine that he was in his own bed rather than sharing one with Lance.</p><p>This is all to preface the Change.</p><p>Keith did not know the exact day when the Change occurred. He just knew that it did, and it was due to the quarantine.</p><p>He was at home, washing the dishes. Lance hadn’t used that many, just a pot, a wooden spoon, a cutting board, and a knife. He put that all on the drying rack, followed by the two plates and their utensils.</p><p>His phone pinged several times. He dried his hands.</p><p>He opened the first notification. An article on the virus. Then an email from Allura. Everyone is being told to not to come into work tomorrow, more adjustments to follow due to the increasing severity of the virus.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>The third was Shiro, telling him that he was fine and was staying at Matt and Pidge’s place. He sent an affirmative back.</p><p>The door slammed open, revealing Lance talking in rapid-fire Spanish to the phone sandwiched between his shoulder and his jaw. He seemed more frazzled than usual, running his fingers through his hair as he slung his backpack onto the nearest available chair. Keith slipped away into his studio before Lance could notice him.</p><p>This was rather early, even for Lance. Keith was pretty sure he left for school only half an hour ago.</p><p>He sat back in front of the easel with a paintbrush in hand. The Red Lion robot sitting in front of him wasn’t his usual piece, but he needed a new angle. He’s been painting abstract galaxies for this one gallery; he needed to do something different. Something new.</p><p>It didn’t look quite right. He hadn’t decided on a background yet, but the pose and the coloring so far made it look too impulsive for his liking. The lion looked too angry, too defensive, too standoffish.</p><p>Something was missing. He hadn’t pinpointed it yet.</p><p>Lance knocked on the door. Keith startled, nearly hitting his painting with a bright swath of white. He fumbled with the brush before it hit the papered floor. Keith sighed. “Dude.”</p><p>“Dude,” Lance said as a way of reply, leaning against the doorframe. Keith could not read the expression on his face for the life of him. “There’s a stay at home order for eight weeks, currently. From the city.”</p><p>“Well,” Keith said.  “Shit.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Lance nodded, glancing back down on his phone. “We can only go out for, like, groceries and fresh air and stuff.”</p><p>“Mm.” Keith picked up his brush. That explains all the phone calls earlier. “Your family okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Lance replied distractedly, running another hand through his hair. “Everyone’s safe inside and everything. God, that house is gonna be wild. I—”</p><p>Keith’s full attention was on Lance now, who shot him a wavering smile. Keith moved before he could think and suddenly Lance was hugging him in the way he hugs everyone, elbows digging into ribs as his hands found traction on Keith’s shoulders. Too tight around Keith’s diaphragm for him to be comfortable, but he could care less.</p><p>“It’s just—” Keith could feel Lance’s nose bridge digging into his neck. He pulled Lance’s lanky body closer. “I was supposed to see them on Friday, go home before shit could get worse, but—” he sniffled— “dammit, Keith, I miss ‘em already.”</p><p>Keith knew.</p><p>So he hugged Lance tighter and let him cry on his paint-flecked shirt.</p><p>
  <strong><br/>
<br/>
</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Lance put on the movie. It was some superhero movie with a guy in a red costume but it wasn’t Spiderman; it was far too gruesome for that. Keith had forgotten the name of the guy already, but he was hilarious. He pulled his blankets up to his chin and curled on his side of Lance’s bed. Shiro had called, followed by Shiro’s parents, and his brain was too overloaded with all this information that he just decided to call it quits.</p><p>Lance had put all the snacks on his nightstand. Keith’s eyes had drooped down so that the dark room had coalesced into the vague shapes and colors of the movie.</p><p>He laid in that medium between sleep and awake, content in the cocoon of blankets and the soundtrack of guns blazing and loud cursing fading to background noise. His head dug further into his pillow, his bangs shifting to cover his view of the screen. He closed his eyes.</p><p>This was nice.</p><p>Thin fingers pushed his bangs away from his face and behind his ear. He felt a kiss being pressed to his forehead as the first hand was replaced with the other, this time at the crown of his head and combing at the longer locks.</p><p>“<em>Buenas noches, cariño</em>,” he heard (thought he heard?) Lance whisper. He mumbled something Keith’s sleep-addled brain doesn’t catch, but Lance’s fingers hit a particularly good spot on his head and Keith sighed into his touch.</p><p>Sleep came, slowly, to Lance’s fingers, then all at once.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>The System didn’t change that much. Lance stayed at home to take classes. Keith still tutored and worked at home, except now Lance sat across from him as they worked to music on Lance’s playlist. Lance FaceTimed his family almost daily, and Keith almost as often with Shiro and occasionally Matt and Pidge, if they weren’t working on some harebrained project at the moment.</p><p>The plan was for Keith to go outside every two weeks for groceries. He modified his workout to the living room space and Lance joined him after a few days. Lance, surprisingly, just went out on the balcony whenever he wanted fresh air. Keith didn’t mind so much. He just opened the window in his studio. It blew the stink out of it, too. He didn’t realize how much oil paint smelled.</p><p>A week and a half into the quarantine, he’d put the lion away and was working on something abstract. He had no idea, exactly, what he was doing. He just found a finger painting video on Youtube and decided to do just that.</p><p>The background was black and he was working his way up to the lighter colors. So far it looked like a misty rainbow waterfall emerging out of nowhere. His hands were covered in pastel pink now as he started with some of the highlights.</p><p>He looked down at his hands, stained with dark blues, purples, silvers, and now pink.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>He should’ve used gloves.</p><p><em>Eh, whatever</em>.</p><p>He goes back to painting. The waterfall appeared in a lush green forest, the night sky twinkling above (god, that took forever). A pool of water soon followed, moonbeams dancing on the surface merrily as they dove in between the gurgling waves.</p><p>Lance was listening to something in the kitchen and Keith thought he recognized the song. He propped his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes, bobbing his head to the tune.</p><p>The song painted home in his mind, a cracking fire in a fireplace and loose sweatshirts, beige walls and worn furniture. It sounded like putting Polaroids in a photo album, sharing a meal in the kitchen with a significant other, and just the ability to hold and be held. The feeling of familiarity and warmth, even if that feeling is long gone into the past now.</p><p>The details started to come faster now, clean white cabinets and wooden countertops, subway tiles and lots of hanging plants. Black appliances and—</p><p>Someone —well, Lance, who else— shook his shoulder roughly. “I’M AWAKE! God fucking <em>hell</em>, Lance, I—”</p><p>“No!” Lance suddenly screeched, grabbing Keith’s wrists before Keith could push his bangs out of his face. Keith was startled for a moment before his brain started to function again. Oh, right. “Dude, how’d you even get this much paint on your hands? You gonna scrape it off with your knife or something?”</p><p>Keith rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a knife, Lance. Unless you mean the kitchen knives, then yes. But,” Lance pulled his hands up towards his face, examining them closely, “I’m pretty sure turpentine would work.”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Lance said, now tugging Keith by his wrists out of his seat. “That’s probably bad for your skin.”</p><p>Keith just shrugs. “‘S what I did before.”</p><p>“Nope.” Lance succeeded in pulling Keith to their shared bathroom, putting Keith’s hands into the sink. “Stay there, I’m gonna figure out how to get all that gunk off your hands.”</p><p>Keith huffed but didn’t argue. He’d probably get Lance more ticked off at him if he got his paints all over the apartment.</p><p>He tried to blow a strand of hair out of his eyes. It flew up for a moment before settling in the same place as it was before, smaller strands puffing up and coming loose. <em>Why the </em>fuck <em>was Lance taking so long—?</em></p><p>He tried blowing the strand out of his face again. Made a face at his fruitlessness. Then he noticed that Lance was standing behind him in the mirror, a small smile that he didn’t recognize on his face. “What?”</p><p>Lance shook his head, like he was getting water out of his ears. “Oh—uh, nothing.” He held up a large bottle of baby oil. “Found what I was looking for.”</p><p>Keith stared. “The hell you need that much baby oil for?”</p><p>“You think this ultra soft skin comes naturally?” Lance smirked, putting the bottle down and taking out a pair of gloves. He pulled out a bunch of cotton circles from one of the drawers on his side and dumped some oil on one, taking Keith’s left hand and starting to rub circles into his skin.</p><p>It had been a few days and already the Change had started to take place. Lance hadn’t kissed his forehead again, like the first night, but Keith had felt his fingers card through his hair occasionally. He liked it. It felt nice. It’s been a while since anyone played with his hair.</p><p>Lance’s hands working between his fingers felt nice, too.</p><p>Lance moved from beside Keith to sitting on the counter, five cotton pads already discarded in the trash and soaked through with dark paint. Four fingers and most of Keith’s left hand were free of paint so far.</p><p>He watched Lance through the mirror. His luminescent blue eyes were narrowed in concentration, his brow furrowed and tongue between his teeth. His hair had grown a little longer than usual. Keith remembered that Lance was supposed to have a haircut done a couple days ago. Lance’s hair was the color of sepia, of the outside bark of redwood trees and the dark shadows of canyons in bright reddish rock. His skin shone as always, a deep, golden, alive color Keith found impossible to replicate on a painting so far. His warm sweats brushed against Keith whenever Lance shifted. Keith couldn’t read the words on the tank top Lance was wearing, but the top was the same ocean blue as his eyes. </p><p>To be honest, Keith had never been this close with his roommate. He’d never been this close to anyone and let them stay there for long.</p><p>He felt Lance’s hands stop massaging his own and looked down. His hands were fairly clean of paint; Lance was taking off his gloves and reaching for a different bottle amid his many face products. “What—”</p><p>“This is specifically for getting stubborn substances off your skin,” Lance looked up from washing Keith’s hands and grinned. “Such as a lot of baby oil and maybe the rest of that paint, too.” Then Lance leaned in closer, eyes scanning Keith’s face. Keith stared back, taking in as much detail about Lance’s face as he could. Tall, sloping nose. High-arched eyebrows. Freckles, and a lot of them. Full lips. “You could probably do with a face mask or two.”</p><p>“Mhm,” Keith hummed, not exactly agreeing or disagreeing. Lance finished off with his hands and grabbed a towel, patting down Keith’s hands.</p><p>Before Keith could pull his hands away, Lance was rubbing a cold cream over his hands. “Your hands are so rough, <em>acere</em>.”</p><p>Keith had no idea how to reply to that. Lance’s fingers now traced patterns over his skin, smoothing out every last vestige of lotion and pushing it into his skin. Perhaps for a bit longer than he intended.</p><p>Keith’s gaze wandered from the mirror and to Lance. His eyes were glazed over, staring at his and Keith’s hands. As if he was in a daze, he lifted them up and kissed Keith’s hands.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>Lance seems to snap himself out of whatever daydream he’s in and starts spluttering, “Oh, shit—um. I. Old habits die hard? Sorry about—”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Keith said, watching as Lance’s eyes relaxed. He had rather pronounced smile lines already. And long lashes.</p><p>“Uh.” Lance gulped. His Adam’s apple was dappled in shadows that made his jawline more pronounced. Lance would be an interesting subject for a painting. “Okay. Okay, um. I’m—gonna go make dinner. You kinda, uh. Missed it.”</p><p>“Okay,” Keith nodded. He let Lance walk out before following.</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>Lance turned around, brow arched. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Face masks,” Keith said. “Sounds cool.”</p><p>Lance grinned, all pearly whites and genuine happiness. “Cool. We’ll do one later, then.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Keith then remembered he hadn’t even been close to finishing the painting when Lance interrupted. Oh, well. He had all of quarantine to finish it anyways.</p><p>
  <strong><br/>
<br/>
</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It was nine and Lance had spent the whole day making tamales.</p><p>Keith had to admit that Lance had gotten pretty good at outdoing himself whenever he made— well, literally anything. He’d “inhaled” (Lance’s words) two already and took the time to savor the third. The meat was tender and had just the right amount of spice, the masa creamy and moist.</p><p>(He was also sure that Hunk was helping Lance, but he had no way of proving that so far.)</p><p>“Good?” Lance smirked. Keith rolled his eyes, but nodded. “Great. I’ll do the dishes so my hard work on your hands isn’t ruined. Then shower so we can start the face masks.”</p><p>“Okay, <em>Dad</em>,” Keith scoffed around a mouthful of food.</p><p>“That’s Daddy to you,” Lance winked before turning around to do said dishes.</p><p>Keith swallowed down the last of his third tamal. “You’re insufferable. I thought you took pride in being a power bottom?”</p><p>“Don’t <em>kink shame</em> me.” Lance turned the faucet onto soaped-up spoons, getting water all over his tank top. “<em>Joder</em>.”</p><p>“You just fell for one of the most <em>classic</em> blunders of all time.” Keith took a sip of his green tea.</p><p>“Holy shit.”</p><p>Lance, with all his dripping wet tank top glory, turned to face him, gaping. “You just made a Princess Bride reference.”</p><p>“In my defense,” Keith countered, “that’s what you played yesterday.”</p><p>“You—” Lance pointed a wooden spoon at Keith in what he clearly thought was an aggressive manner.</p><p>Keith raised an eyebrow.</p><p>Lance huffed. “Face masks, <em>hermano</em>, chop chop.”</p><p>
  <strong><br/>
<br/>
</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Keith braided his hair while he waited for Lance to finish up in the shower.</p><p>Keith preferred what Lance called a “mullet” (which it clearly wasn’t) to all of his past hairstyles as it was long enough to pin back from his face when he was painting. Anything shorter would have been harder to maintain, and Keith really didn’t want to deal with the hassle of constant haircuts and all the styling products Lance used. Besides, braiding hair was easy.</p><p>Lance was taking too long in the shower. Keith shifted, his feet already going numb in his cross-legged position on Lance’s side of the bed. Keith’s side was the one next to the window. He liked staring at the stars as he fell asleep if the show or movie Lance picked that day wasn’t that interesting.</p><p>In the middle of nowhere, Arizona, their apartment building had a road that ran under Lance’s window and towards the center of the state. It wasn’t too busy, usually with a small stream of cars passing through. Really, Altea Tech and Garrison University was the only thing exciting about the (rather large and boring) city. Keith watched the headlights pass by in the dark night. That would be interesting on canvas.</p><p>Lance came in, a silk robe around his waist and a light blue towel on his head, a pink tube and two cloth headbands in his hand. “Hey, Mullet.” He tossed a headband to Keith. “Ready?”</p><p>“Depends on how you define ‘ready,’” Keith grumbled, more for the affronted noise Lance made than anything. He slipped the headband over his head, sliding the front back over his hair to catch any errant strands. “Why the pink one?”</p><p>“Because the pink one’s the best.” Lance’s voice left no room for argument and Keith was already kind of feeling drowsy. He just shrugged as Lance threw his towel over his desk chair and slipped his own headband on.</p><p>“I don’t feel like holding up a mirror,” Lance said as he unscrewed the cap and squeezed pink goo all over his index finger, “so I’m gonna do yours and you’ll do mine. Besides, it’ll be fun! A little cold, maybe. Like a sleepover.”</p><p>“Maybe a permanent one.” Lance’s fingers brushed his face as his index swept the goop under Keith’s eye. “Is it supposed to sting my eye a little?”</p><p>“That’s just the smell.” Lance pushed the product down his cheek. “You’ll survive.”</p><p>The corner of Keith’s mouth lifted into a smirk — well, the side that Lance currently was working on. “I’ll get pinkeye.”</p><p>Lance pulled away from his face and frowned at him. Hm. That was cute. (He can appreciate art, okay?) “Okay, where has Witty Keith been all this time? I thought you only had Short, Dark, and Handsome going for you.”</p><p>Keith just shrugged. “We don’t really talk that much.”</p><p>“You mean ‘you,’” Lance corrected as he squeezed out more goop and started lining Keith’s jaw. “You don’t talk much. <em>Ese</em>, you gotta tell me if I’m blabbering or something.”</p><p>“Mm.” Keith hummed as Lance’s fingers made their way from one side of his jaw to the other. “I like listening to you talk.”</p><p>“Well, thank god we’re doing my mask last then,” Lance smeared another thing of mask under Keith’s other eye. “This is a peel-off, so we won’t be able to talk while it dries if we want it to work properly. Pull your upper lip down over your teeth like this—” Lance showed Keith what to do — “yeah, like that.”</p><p>Keith closed his eyes as Lance moved onto his nose, the stench becoming stronger than he anticipated. He thought these things were supposed to smell good, but it smelled more like a bunch of chemicals to him.</p><p>Lance’s fingers worked over his forehead, smearing the pink stuff down the sides of his temples. Lance was right, his fingers were cold, but it felt really good. This was relaxing. He probably should’ve asked to do this a long time ago.</p><p>Lance’s fingers lifted away from his face. “There.” Keith opened his eyes. He could already feel parts of the mask drying. “So, just leave that on there until it’s dry. Try not to move your face too much or it won’t work as well.” He handed the tube to Keith and gestured toward his face, grinning. “Paint me like one of your galaxies, Kogane. And make it even, too.”</p><p>Keith rolled his eyes, which made Lance snort. He squeezed a dollop onto his finger and lifted it towards Lance’s face, who leaned forward so that Keith could access it better.</p><p>It felt like a stickier pourable acrylic paint and went on like one, too. Lance’s tan skin made it easier for Keith to pick out spots that weren’t as opaque as others and spread more product in that direction. He kept with the pattern that Lance had done his face in, first under eye, cheek, jaw, then other under eye, cheek, upper lip, nose, forehead.</p><p>He could catch more details in Lance’s face like this, like the shape of his eyebrow, his Cupid’s bow, the flecks of silver in his eyes. Lance’s skin was perfect, a result of all the tiny little bottles on a neat shelf in their bathroom. There wasn’t a blemish or wrinkle other than the obvious smile lines. His lips were smooth and plush as opposed to the rough and cracked skin on Keith’s.</p><p>Lance’s mask was done all too soon. Keith reached for the tissue Lance had used to clean off his finger and wiped his own, balling it up and tossing it in the trash.</p><p>Lance held up his phone, clearly checking out Keith’s work. Keith rolled his eyes again as he jutted his thumb towards the door. Lance nodded, but pointed to the remote, which sat atop a precarious stack of books on his desk.</p><p>Keith tilted his head and glared at Lance, who was clearly trying not to laugh. Keith made out like he was huffing and got up, picking the remote on his way out and tossing it back to Lance.</p><p>Keith fixed himself another mug of green tea and stuck one of Lance’s metal straws in it, bringing it back to Lance’s room.</p><p>Lance had started playing Youtube and was on some cooking show. Keith carefully crawled over Lance’s legs to his side of the bed and resumed his cross-legged position. They stayed like that for a while, masks drying out while Keith carefully took sips of his hot tea and the guy on screen made sourdough.</p><p>Keith’s ass had gotten tired of sitting on the bed without moving when he felt fingers tapping at his cheek. He turned slowly to look at Lance, who tapped his other cheek before nodding and pointing towards the door. Keith followed him off the bed and into the entrance to the apartment, where a huge mirror had been hung prior to their residency.</p><p>“Peel-off — ow.” Several parts of Lance’s mask had popped off when he spoke. Keith just fixed him with a your-fault glare. Lance grinned back.</p><p>They began peeling off their masks in the mirror. Keith was pleasantly surprised to see that only small bits remained but most of the mask had come off in one piece. He tapped lightly at his skin. It felt different, but a good kind of different. A bit tighter, a bit smoother. There was a sheen to his skin. He really should have done this a long time ago.</p><p>“Hey, Mullet.” Lance tapped his shoulder, his own mask in hand. “Gonna rinse the rest off, or are you gonna keep staring at yourself in the mirror with a Lance-was-right expression on?” He waggled his eyebrows.</p><p>“There is no such thing,” Keith deadpanned, balling up his mask in his hand. Nevertheless, he let Lance lead him to the bathroom, where they dumped their masks in the trash and took turns washing the rest of it off of their faces. (“Pat your <em>fucking face dry</em>, Kogane, you’re gonna ruin all the hard work we did on it!”)</p><p>Keith fell asleep to a kiss on his forehead and fingers in his hair after ten minutes of pretending like he was sleeping, and he thought, <em>This is nice</em>.</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Lance was always a touchy-feely person.</p><p>He’d give everyone hugs just randomly. He’d drape himself over Hunk or prop his feet on whoever’s lap was available even if their friend group wasn’t squeezed onto the couch. He’d drop kisses on Allura’s, Pidge’s, and even Shiro’s cheek if Lance was feeling particularly generous. He would even sling an arm around Keith sometimes when they were all gathered in someone’s kitchen. He gave bro hugs to his classmates whenever he and Keith bumped into them outside of school and brushed cheeks with acquaintances he had accumulated over the time he had spent in the town.</p><p>That is to say that the small attentions that Keith got to enjoy from Lance were different. They were the comforting, endearing kind of touches that Keith kept close to the heart he kept hidden behind high walls. He didn’t care if he was being selfish, reveling in the feel of Lance’s fingers in his hair or his kisses on his skin and knowing he was the only one that received them. </p><p>He’d never had anything like it.</p><p>The day after, he builds the largest frame he has ever made and stretches canvas over it, staple-gunning it in place. He sketches rapidly, the details unexpectedly as familiar as the back of his hand.</p><p>He did not understand his haste, but he knew this was the most daring project of his yet.</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The quarantine had been extended another month.</p><p>A little over two weeks into the quarantine, Keith had been working in the living room. At least, that’s what he intended to do.</p><p>Keith had waited until Lance was asleep to get up and work on his project until around four in the morning, which gave him about two hours of sleep until he had to wake up for his online tutoring job. Then he had work to be done.</p><p>Keith woke up in the late afternoon, on the couch, with a blanket thrown over him and his laptop on the coffee table.</p><p>He had an inkling as to who might be the culprit.</p><p>His stomach growled. He missed lunch.</p><p>Lance had left him a Tupperware of pasta in the fridge and his door was closed. He probably was in a Zoom meeting with his department if the large amount of keyboard clicking was anything to go by.</p><p>Keith’s fingers itched as he waited for his pasta in the microwave. He needed to paint before the small feeling in his chest could disappear, he needed to bottle it up, pour it onto his large painting, needed to express it in color before he could forget it. He disliked it. He couldn’t even place the feeling, discern whether or not it was good or bad. It confused him.</p><p>It repeated a chorus of <em>Lance, Lance, Lance</em>, back at him. <em>What the shit</em>.</p><p>It was uncomfortable as heck.</p><p>He did not get back to work until later that day, when Lance was in class and Keith finally took a break from painting to quickly shoot a few apology emails and speed through everything he didn’t finish in the morning. Thankfully, there weren’t any video calls he might have missed. He liked the team he worked with, thankfully. They didn’t bother him too much, just let him do his part and didn’t ask too many questions whenever they went out for beers.</p><p>He kind of wished Lance was in his department, though. He wondered how different Lance was when he was actually working and not being the flamboyant personality he is.</p><p>Keith went into his studio after work was done, touching up the finer details on his hidden project. The smaller portraits were coming along, but he wasn’t anywhere close to finishing. He fell asleep on the couch much later, probably around two if his bleary-eyed stare at the clock as he closed his eyes was anything to go by. </p><p>He woke up in the morning to the same blanket covering him, one of Lance’s pillows under his head. Lance was already in the kitchen, stirring around several pans, a stack of pancakes already on the table. “Mornin’, Sleepin’ Beauty, took you long enough.”</p><p>“Fuck you, beauty sleep,” Keith grumbled as he creaked upwards. “Smells good.”</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It took two more weeks — almost five weeks into the quarantine — for Lance to show how much it really was affecting him.</p><p>It was also the stay-at-home order week.</p><p>Keith had found a tutoring service his freshman year in college (<em>fine</em>, Shiro found it for him) that paid him hourly and by how many kids he’d tutored during those hours, which pretty much meant he made a lot of bank. The students he helped ranged from elementary school kids to people in college taking their gen eds and spanned the globe. Often, they hailed from international schools that taught English as a second language, but sometimes he’d get a Korean student and he’d get to speak Korean to another person that wasn’t Shiro. Pidge was on it, too, as another side hustle (as if she hadn’t had enough already).</p><p>He was talking to one of his regulars, Iseul, when Lance came into the dining room and hugged him from behind, dropping his head on Keith’s shoulder and nearly making Keith fall off the bar stool in surprise.</p><p>Lance usually did this when he was drunk. Or when he couldn’t find a suitable person to drape himself over, which means that Keith was last after Hunk, Pidge (if she didn’t have anything of value in her hands), Allura, Shiro, Matt, and if Allura’s uncle Coran was there, Coran. In that order.</p><p>Sometimes the table came before Keith on the totem pole.</p><p>Lance’s breath tickled Keith’s neck.</p><p>Right. Priorities.</p><p>He’d been tutoring today for a while. It was almost two. Lance made lunch earlier today because he had a call at twelve.</p><p>“<em>You understand, right</em>?” Keith asked. “<em>You can use </em>y = rsinθ<em> and </em>x = rcosθ<em> to substitute </em>x’s <em>and </em>y’s <em>to turn a parametric equation into a function and a function to parametric. There’s also </em>tanθ = y/x<em>.</em>”</p><p>“<em>I understand</em>, seonbae,” replied Iseul. “<em>Neomu gomawoyo</em>!” (너무 고마워요).</p><p>“<em>Anieyo</em>, Iseul,” (아니에요) Keith replied graciously. “<em>See you next time</em>.”</p><p>“<em>See you next time!</em>” Iseul clicked off. Keith logged off his hours and signed off, aware of Lance’s arms tightening just a smidge around him.</p><p>He closed his laptop lid. “What’s up?”</p><p>“Mhm,” Lance hummed into Keith’s skin. He barely managed to stop the shiver from rolling down his spine. “Never heard you speak Korean before. S’nice.”</p><p>Keith rolled his eyes. “I’m not that good.”</p><p>“<em>No lo parece, pendejo guapo</em>,” Lance muttered.</p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>“You’re an idiot,” Lance said breezily, shifting his head so that his chin was propped up on Keith’s shoulder. </p><p>Keith turned towards him as best he could, but he really was just squishing his cheek against Lance’s. “I figured that much, but the other part.”</p><p>“A big one.”</p><p>Keith frowned. Lance grinned.</p><p>“<em>Jag-eun geojismal nom</em>.” (작은 거짓말 놈).</p><p>“Okay, this is unfair. Spanish is easier to figure out than Korean.”</p><p>“<em>Geugeos-eun jeolleumbal-i byeonmyeong-ibnida</em>, Lance.” (그것은 절름발이 변명입니다.)</p><p>“<em>Jódete</em>.” Lance removed himself from Keith and moved towards the coffee maker, pulling out their steel filter from the dishwasher and taking out a bag of coffee.</p><p>Keith dropped his elbows onto the table. “Lance, it’s like two in the afternoon.”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>“Why are you making coffee?”</p><p>Lance didn’t stop making coffee. He poured beans into the grinder and pressed the on button. “Dunno.” Lance’s hands were shaking.</p><p>“Wanna talk about it.” It should sound like a question. </p><p>Keith’s never been good at asking questions.</p><p>“Not really, no.” The grinder stopped and Lance opened the lid.  The smell of coffee wafted out. Keith preferred tea. Lance was the one who drank all the coffee. “I might actually—” Lance dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. “<em>Carajo</em>.”</p><p>Keith waited. Lance put the filter in the machine and dumped all the coffee grounds in. “Dude. Oh, fuck, I forgot water.”</p><p>Keith watched him get water from the fridge. Lance poured it into the thing where the water goes.</p><p>Lance rattled the pot into position as he closed all the plastic flap things and pressed start. “It’s trivia night. I should be back from Cuba by now.”</p><p>The machine started making gurgly noises.</p><p>“I hate—” Lance stuffed his hands in his sweatpant pockets. Crossed his arms. Uncrossed them and started playing with the hem of his shirt. “I hate being stuck inside. How do you—do this? I’m— fuck, Keith.” Lance turned to look at him, his foot tapping the floor. There were bags under Lance’s watery eyes and his lip was quivering. His eyebrows were furrowed and he kept blinking, as if trying to ward away his tears. “I wanna go outside. I wanna go to the beach. I want pastelitos. <em>Carajo</em>. <em>Joder</em>. Fuck.”</p><p>Lance’s coffee finished. Lance stared at it. Keith watched a tear roll down his face.</p><p>“Wanna paint for a bit?”</p><p>Lance jumped, head snapping to stare at Keith. “W—What?”</p><p>“Paint,” Keith repeated, hopping out of the stool. He grabbed his laptop. “I should have acrylic paints somewhere.”</p><p>“Uh.” Lance scratched the back of his head. His blue eyes flickered to Keith, then his feet, then the coffee, then back at Keith. “Isn’t that—like, uh….where?”</p><p>Keith tilted his head at him. “My studio, where else?”</p><p>“Dunno, just,” Lance shrugged. Keith had never seen Lance look more uncomfortable in his life. “Thought that was personal, so I kinda stayed out— of it.”</p><p>“You’ve woken me up when I’d been sleeping in there,” Keith said as he started shuffling towards the hall. “Wouldn’t you’ve seen it then?”</p><p>“Didn’t look at them, really,” Lance muttered as he followed Keith into his studio.</p><p> </p><p>Keith let out a sigh of relief internally when he saw his pet project covered. He let Lance pass by him into the room. “We’ve been roommates for months and you’ve never been inside my studio?”</p><p>“No, whaaa......” Lance’s voice trailed off. Keith knelt down next to his shelf of paints, shuffling shoe boxes around and looking for one with acrylic paints. He looked up when Lance hadn’t said anything.</p><p>Lance was gaping. At Keith’s paintings.</p><p>Really, his studio wasn’t that special. He and Shiro had either bought or made at least twelve easels, ten of which were currently propped open in his studio (although it was a bit crowded). Four of those were covered, holding projects that Keith Would Not Like To Talk About to other people who might perchance upon them. The other six were his lion, the waterfall, a couple empty canvases, an unfinished painting of the Parisian skyline (he was kind of basic, sue him), and an unfinished Technicolor painting of Shiro and Matt (it was a birthday present for whichever birthday came first, after this quarantine). The walls were covered with his previous works too personal to sell, if they weren’t leaning against any available spaces. The only blank wall was the one with the Big Painting leaning against it; it also held all of his thumbnails and sketches from previous projects.</p><p>“They’re not that, um—” Keith cleared his throat. “You can go, ah, where there’s a blank canvas.”</p><p>“<em>Serás pendejo si crees que no eres la persona más increíble que conozco</em>,” Lance muttered as he plopped down onto a vacant stool.</p><p>Keith followed soon after, handing him the shoe box of acrylics and a small case of paintbrushes he didn’t use anymore. “I’m gonna pretend that was a compliment.”</p><p>“<em>Lo fue</em>,” Lance grinned back at him.</p><p>Keith just shook his head, tugging the table that held his oil paints towards the other empty easel. This contraption was his favorite, because it held all of his brushes and his paints and had a plastic top thing where he can mix his paints without having to wash anything repeatedly. He took out another blank plastic board from the bottom of his table and handed it to Lance. “Put all your paints on here, that way we only have to scrape off the board when you’re done.”</p><p>“Huh.” Lance took the board offered to him and placed it on his knees precariously, leaning down to grab some tubes from the shoe box now laying at his feet. “Is painting seriously this......convoluted?”</p><p>Keith just shrugged. “Well, I don’t have another contraption for you to use. You might also want to get like a water cup or something, to clean your brushes off to switch colors.”</p><p>“Why don’t you have one?”</p><p>“I do.” Keith squeezed out a dime-sized bit of white and black paint onto his board. “That’s this thing here.” He patted the trough that was hooked on the side of his contraption, which was stuffed with brushes. “But mine’s just for keeping my brushes wet because otherwise the oil would dry out on them. I really only clean my brushes when I run out of clean ones.”</p><p>“Cool,” Lance nodded absently. “Cool cool cool. You have a pencil?”</p><p>“There should be a couple already on the easel.” Keith picked up red, yellow, and blue next.</p><p>He still wasn’t sure what he should paint yet. Maybe Pidge. Hmm, maybe Pidge as Rosie the Riveter? </p><p>Tempting, but no.</p><p>Maybe a comic book character? What’d they watch yesterday?</p><p>The cartoon Spider-Man movie. That one.</p><p>The main character — Miles, was it? — kind of reminded him of Lance.</p><p>Miles Morales. On a beach. Spider-Man didn’t take breaks.</p><p>Varadero Beach.</p><p>
  <em>Hmm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s a thought.</em>
</p><p>He fumbled around for a pencil, finding one on the easel. Lance came back with a water cup, setting it on the floor.</p><p>From what he’s seen of Lance’s pictures of Varadero Beach, it’s mostly a flat beach with sparse palm trees and no urbanization for miles around. His family had a house right on the beach, where the horizon and the ocean were one never ending line.</p><p>He sketched out a rough picture of a flat beach, shallow waves crashing ashore. A palm tree lazed back towards the beach as the sun set, a small figure sitting almost parallel to the sand among the drooping leaves.</p><p>It was relatively simple, painting a sunset and waves and a palm tree. Dark blue to purple to red to orange to yellow to a white circle, to quick swipes of a paint knife to reflect the mix of colors over clear turquoise water. The lines are surprisingly clean and sharp, different from Keith’s usual style. </p><p>The colors on the figure were smudged, trying to convey relaxation. The figure was masked, arms propped on his knees as he stared into the sunset. Keith contemplated whether or not to have the mask up. He shrugged. The figure was small anyways, so it wasn’t like anyone would really notice if it was either.</p><p>(Should’ve thought of Spider-Man earlier. Oh, well.)</p><p>Keith carefully took his tiniest brush in hand and dipped it in white. He added highlights to the figure, following with even smaller dashes of purple and orange. He considered whether or not he should add a string of web swinging in the breeze, then decided against it. He should probably add clouds, though.</p><p>Keith haphazardly mixed a cool gray together, scooping some up with his palette knife and tapping his canvas a few times, adding some pink and orange to accentuate the sun setting.</p><p>He sat back and contemplated. </p><p>Maybe a smidge more white in the clouds?</p><p>He tapped his brush against his leg, thinking. It looked fine. It looked--</p><p>Wait, fuck, the water on the beach. Also, the beach coloring looked pretty bad, to be honest.</p><p>
  <em>How to do this, how to do this, how to do this.</em>
</p><p>Keith considered pulling up reference pics. He pulled out his phone, quickly googling “beach sunset” and scrolling down. Nothing. He changed up the language a little, trying to find a picture that would fit the painting. His gaze found the time: five in the p.m.<em> That was fast.</em></p><p>He shook his head, coming out of the “zone” (as Shiro called it), albeit a bit slowly. He realized that Lance had been playing music, some sort of soft, calming Spanish song. For once, he wasn’t that bothered by Lance’s music.</p><p>Lance was watching him, paintbrush absently spinning in his hand. Keith flushed, feeling heat rise into his ears. They’re probably red. “What?”</p><p>Lance startled. “Huh? Oh-- you were, like, sticking out your tongue.” He put his tongue between his teeth, only the tip peeking out from between his lips. “Like this.”</p><p>Then he puffed his cheeks out and crossed his eyes.</p><p>Keith executed the largest eye roll he’s probably ever done regarding Lance. “You’re a douche.”</p><p>Lance nodded along. “People do use me in the shower.”</p><p>“For <em>fucks</em>--” Keith rubbed his eyes. <em>God</em>, he needed to look outside every once in a while. “Dammit, Lance. What’d you paint?”</p><p>“I tried painting Spongebob,” Lance frowned. “Like, the meme one. Didn’t turn out that well, though. Yours--Yours looks good.”</p><p>Keith glanced at Lance’s. “Yours is pretty good too.” He leaned in closer to the painting, his ponytail brushing against Lance’s arm. “I mean, the meme is pretty warped anyways, so it doesn’t look too off.”</p><p>“First of all,” Lance huffed, “Spongebob is a <em>god</em>. There is <em>no way</em> that he can be warped.”</p><p>“Isn’t there a reddit theory that Spongebob is, like, some kind of fever dream or something?”</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> a fever dream!”</p><p>
  <em>I’M GONNA TAKE MY HORSE DOWN THIS SEOUL TOWN ROAD, I’M GONNA--</em>
</p><p>Keith’s ringtone for Shiro made both guys jump in surprise. Keith untangled himself from the mess of easels and stools, perhaps a little bit too hastily, and strode towards the kitchen.</p><p>
  <em>Who could it be at this hour? --Lemony Snicket, probably.</em>
</p><p>He grabbed his phone, which was dangerously close to vibrating off the edge of the table and pulled out a stool. “What.”</p><p>“<em>SHIRO’S GOT A--</em>” Pidge’s shrieks were way too loud for Keth’s ears to handle so he held the phone at arm’s length and put it on speaker. Even with that, Pidge was laughing too loud to be understood.</p><p>“What the fuck, Pidge?”</p><p>“QUICHE BONG!” Pidge suddenly screeched. “Shiro’s got a ring!”</p><p>Keith sat down. Hard. He turned the phone off speaker and held it to his ear again. “Holy shit.”</p><p>“One. Hundred.<em> Bucks</em>.”</p><p>“We’re in quarantine,” Keith rolled his eyes. “Shiro’s not gonna propose in quarantine.”</p><p>“Daniel,” Pidge said very, very, seriously, “you have not seen the ridiculous amounts of dates Shiro and Matt have made for each other in the course of roughly nine hundred hours. You also have not seen how ridiculous they have become. Would you like me to send you audio recordings of--”</p><p>“Pidge! Fine! One hundred bucks!” Keith pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m being <em>bullied</em> here.”</p><p>“Put a ring on your own man, Daniel,” Pidge said dismissively. Keith could almost see the get-over-it hand hand motion.</p><p>“I am being attacked. I am but a poor, defenseless--”</p><p>“<em>GAAAAAAAYYY</em>!!!”</p><p>“There is <em>no man</em> to put a ring on.”</p><p>“You fucking wish,” Pidge snorted right before she hung up. Keith groaned and let his head fall onto the table.</p><p>Wood is cold. It is much nicer than his probably-sister-in-law.</p><p>“Hey Keith,” He felt a poke to his shoulder. “Can I have the Spiderman painting? Once you’re done?”</p><p>Keith let his head fall to the side so that he was peering up at Lance through his left eye. “Sure. Gotta wait a couple weeks though. Oil takes a while to dry.”</p><p>Lance sighed. His head turned towards the window, where the sun sat low in the sky. “Dammit, I gotta do more waiting? Can’t we get to summer already?”</p><p>“I’d be a hundred bucks richer,” Keith grinned. “Note to self: never make a bet with Pidge when she’s quarantined with the two people the bet is concerning.”</p><p>“<em>Acere</em>, I could have told you not to do that a while ago,” Lance scoffed. “Never make a bet with Pidge, period.”</p><p>“Amen to that.”</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>Eventually, they ate dinner and went into Lance’s room to watch Disney+ (courtesy of the woman of the hour, Pidgealicious). Lance chose <em>Mulan</em> and made a joke about Keith cutting off his hair with his (nonexistent) knife, and Keith laughed. Then compared Lance to the Emperor’s secretary (whatever his face was) and laughed at him stroking an imaginary goatee.</p><p>It’s when Keith was hovering in that area between sleep and awake that he felt fingers lightly brushing hair away from his face. His eyelids felt too heavy to move, and he felt too languid to not pretend like he wasn’t asleep yet (not that he wouldn’t if he was more lucid).The fingers pushed the locks covering his face in the same direction as his ponytail, dragging into his scalp in a manner that made Keith shuffle closer to those magic fingers and pulling a whine out of his throat when they stopped moving.</p><p>He felt Lance slide down beside him and shuffle around. The hand in his hair withdrew, only to be replaced with another one. This one pushed hair behind his ear and drifted to cup his face, a thumb smoothing the bags under his eyes.</p><p>He felt Lance scoot closer and felt the press of sticky chapstick to his forehead and Keith sighed into the blissful feeling of cocooning blankets, pillows, and Lance caressing his skin.</p><p>This…...was really nice.</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Keith knew that people come and go, much like a train station. They step on a train and get off another, rushing, moving, going away and rarely coming back. Doors open. Others close. Some are early and make it on time, others get on the train by the skin of their teeth.</p><p>Keith has always stayed and watched people leave. When people stay, they stay for a little while before moving just out of reach and Keith lets them. He lets it be their decision to move towards him again, and they rarely do.</p><p>Lance stays, because he can’t go outside. Lance stays because the government doesn’t want any more people catching the virus. Lance stays because it was too late for him to catch his train to his home.</p><p>People on train stations go back to their homes. They may have one, three, five stops ahead of them. They go up escalators and elevators, down staircases and underground tunnels. No matter the distance, people always go home.</p><p>Keith has not had a home for a long time.</p><p>
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</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Keith is Korean American.</p><p>And he <em>maintains</em> that there is nothing more Asian than a passionate love for pork siopao.</p><p>He was laden with bags from the grocery store, but he had just enough time to pick up a box of pork siopao from his favorite neighborhood Asian market (he also excused such behavior as being supportive of struggling local businesses). He carried that in his hands. Which meant he couldn’t adjust the mask slipping down his nose.</p><p>Keith left the market to a cheery ring of the bell above the door and set off to their apartment. It was a short walk, just over a mile. He debated whether or not to speedwalk the entire way so that he could sink his teeth into some nice, sweet red pork and white bread. God, it smelled heavenly. There was the possibility that he might be drooling by the time he made it back to his apartment.</p><p>He passed closed storefronts and shuttered windows, his boots the only sound in the empty street. It was a nice day outside, free from smog and other car-emission related issues. There were hardly any clouds in the sky, colored a rich late afternoon blue.</p><p>Keith suddenly felt like someone was watching him. He hastened his steps, skin crawling with ants making their way all over his body. Faster footsteps followed him, clearly gaining.</p><p>He heard the swing of a pole or something -- probably a broom handle -- before he heard the shouting.</p><p>“You <em>sick</em> little motherfucker!” was all Keith heard before he started running, trying to escape the sudden rain of blows down on his head and back. The groceries dragging his arms didn’t help matters as he was considerably slower when he tried to run as fast as he could. One particular agonizing stab of the stick made him cry out in pain. The stick swung around to his head just as he was turning to look at his attacker (mistake), and immediately he felt a stinging sensation on his cheek, probably due to a randomly sharp edge on the stick.</p><p>“—<em>brought your sickness into our country</em>—”</p><p>“—<em>going to hell</em>—”</p><p>“—<em>go back to where you came from</em>—”</p><p>He felt so <em>useless</em> as he stumbled through another block, unable to defend himself or gain enough distance from his attacker. His cheek throbbed continuously; the man hit his left arm, nearly making Keith drop his groceries. It took all of his energy to not trip over his boots as the broom handle landed more hits on his arms, back, shoulders, head.</p><p>He just wanted the pain to <em>stop</em>.</p><p><em>God</em>, he wanted <em>everything </em>to <em>stop hurting</em>.</p><p>“—<em>should be fucking illegal</em>—”</p><p>“—<em>how can you live with yourself</em>—”</p><p>“—<em>spreading disease and killing people, man</em>—”</p><p>Keith wanted to go <em>home</em>, for <em>fucks’ sake</em>.</p><p>He rounded the corner and thank <em>fuck</em>, Kolvan the doorman saw him. He snatche up his walkie talkie and made a call before he immediately grabbed Keith’s arm, leading him through the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith saw two policemen grab the man who attacked him -- someone with long blonde hair.</p><p>Kolivan was saying something, god, his face <em>hurt</em>--”okay, Mr. Kogane?”</p><p>“I’m okay, Kolivan.” Keith managed a weak smile. He liked Kolivan, but he really just needed to be alone. “It probably looks a lot worse than it feels.”</p><p>Kolivan, bless his soul, doesn’t press Keith for more details and instead gives a curt nod. “Well then, Mr. Kogane. If you’re sure. Good day.”</p><p>The elevator rang and the doors slid open. Keith nodded to Kolivan in acknowledgement before stepping inside.</p><p>Only when the doors close do the tears start to roll down Keith’s face.</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>He fumbled with his key, partly smushed siopao box in hand as he tried to get the key into the keyhole. His arm slipped with the weight of the groceries and he missed. He tried again. He can’t get the <em>goddamn key</em> in the <em>keyhole</em>--</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, he thought. <em>Fuck my </em>life.</p><p>He kicked the door gently with his foot as a way of knocking. Stared at his feet. Battered Doc Martens. He’s had them for years.</p><p>The door opened but Keith couldn’t look up. He felt like a pathetic mess and probably <em>looked</em> like a pathetic mess too, how could he be <em>such </em>an <em>idiot</em>--</p><p>He heard Lance gasp and that made him flinch. “Sorry I’m late.”</p><p>Lance didn’t say anything, just held the door open for Keith to walk through. Still resolutely looking at the floor, Keith placed the siopao box on the dining table and dropped the rest of the bags to the floor, setting the bag with eggs on it on the countertop. He opened the siopao box. Half had their contents spilling out of the bun, but that was okay. He’d eat the siopao anyways.</p><p>“Keith.”</p><p>Keith’s head immediately snapped up to meet Lance’s gaze, which was a mistake. Lance’s eyes widened as he took in whatever damage was done to Keith’s face.</p><p>Keith couldn't stand it. He coughed into his shoulder and looked away.</p><p>Back to the siopao box. He heard Lance’s soft footsteps making their way to him and he couldn’t hold back the full body shiver at each one, the logo on the box blurring in front of his eyes. His hands shook. He hated this feeling, this uncertain, desperate, vulnerability clawing at his ribcage.</p><p>Wet splats landed on the box as Lance leaned against the table beside him.</p><p>Keith couldn’t stop shaking.</p><p>“Keith. Baby.” Lance’s voice was like a river, quiet and smooth. “Can you look at me, please?”</p><p>Keith couldn’t stop shaking. But he could look up at Lance. So he did, slowly raising his head to meet Lance’s blue-eyed gaze, his cheeks were wet--why was Lance crying?</p><p>Lance studied his face. Keith focused on the freckle on the side of Lance’s nose bridge, trying not to see his reflection in Lance’s eyes.</p><p>“I’m gonna get the first aid kit, okay? And we’re gonna clean everything and then talk, is that okay?” Keith nodded. His throat was tight. He couldn’t speak. “Okay. You’re doing okay, <em>nene</em>. You’ll be okay.”</p><p>Keith watched Lance leave. Took a deep breath in and exhaled. <em>He was going to be </em>okay<em>. He was gonna be </em>fine<em>.</em></p><p><em>God</em>, his body hurt. He pulled out a stool and sat down. He pulled his phone and his keys and put them on the table.</p><p>Keith carefully held out his hands in front of him, seeing the welts of the bags and the box scattering his forearms and stretching the tightness out his fingers. They didn’t look too bad and the pain he was feeling from them was only residual, a ghost of the weight they bore. He knew most of the bruises would be on his back, where the stick hit him more.</p><p>He wanted to cry. He wanted to take off his shirt. He wanted to curl into a ball and forget that this ever happened.</p><p>Lance came back, a white box under his arm and a wet towel in his hands. He sat down next to Keith, taking Keith’s shaking hands in his own and smoothing out the rough red lines with his own cold fingers. He moved up Keith’s arm, the pads of his fingers pushing circles against the angry lines on the pale skin.</p><p>“You know that if you’re getting beaten up while you’re getting groceries, you can drop them, right?” Lance joked, although there was a quiver to his voice. The pressure on Keith’s arm relaxed slightly as Lance began making his way from his elbows to his wrists.</p><p>“I—” Keith rasped, trying to force the words to leave his throat. “Couldn’t.” <em>Deep breath. In, out.</em> “I—”</p><p>“Hey, shhh. Shhh.” Lance cupped Keith’s cheek — the uninjured one — and reached for the towel with his other hand. “You don’t—don’t have to say anything, okay? It’s okay. Everything’s okay, baby.”</p><p>Keith gulped. He blinked, sending more tears down his face. He didn’t know when he started crying or if he even stopped at all. Lance reached up and cleaned the cut on his cheek with the towel, the burning sensation clearing Keith’s gaze enough so that he could see Lance was crying too. </p><p>Keith wished he could cup Lance’s cheek too, and wipe the tear tracks from his face. But his arms felt too heavy to move.</p><p>“Your cut doesn’t look too deep,” Lance murmured, fiddling with the medicine box. “Probably doesn’t need stitches.”</p><p>Keith watched Lance take out a few packages and tubes. He held still as Lance swept an alcohol swab over the cut. A cold salve followed, before Lance pressed gauze to the cut and then covered it with medical tape.</p><p>Lance cupped Keith’s face once more, minding the new bandage as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Keith’s forehead. “You’re okay, <em>nene</em>,” he whispered. “You’ll be okay, baby.”</p><p>Keith closed his eyes. He let the last few tears roll down his face as his shoulders slumped. He hadn’t realized how tense they were.</p><p>“The guy who chased me,” he whispered, keeping his eyes closed. For once in his life, he doesn’t want to see the painting of the world around him. He tried to remember what the guy screamed at him, because Lance deserved an explanation. Keith’s never shown this much of his emotions to anyone, much less Lance. He wasn’t even sure if he could accurately depict the feeling in art. “He was shouting insults at me and hitting me everywhere he could with--some kind of-- stick, there was something sharp, that’s why my cheek was bleeding, and--”</p><p>“What--” Lance stopped. “C-could you tell me what he said?”</p><p><em>In. Out</em>. “First it was--um. My mask kept slipping so I guess he caught me when my mask had fallen off and then he was screaming about how I was just getting everyone sick and how ‘my kind’--” bunny ears -- “brought it here and I’m pretty sure that he told me to go home at some point? Which is dumb, because I come from fucking Texas; Texas is my home, not— I don’t—”</p><p>“Where is he now?” Lance cut in, voice hard and cold. Keith started at the sudden change in tone, opening his eyes and looking up at Lance, whose face was set.</p><p>Anger burned in those cobalt eyes, but it wasn’t directed at Keith--<em>oh</em>.</p><p>“Kolivan called security on him,” Keith said quickly before Lance could march down and punch the guy himself (he’s seen that look before and <em>that</em> is a story only drunk Lance tells best). “He’s probably in jail right now.”</p><p>Lance’s hands had long since left Keith’s face and now sat in his lap, opening and closing into fists. “<em>Mierda. Mierda</em>!” Keith watched Lance’s fingernails making crescent shaped marks into his own palms. Before Keith could reach out and stop him, Lance’s fingers splayed out as he let out a sigh. “God, people can be so--so <em>stupid</em> sometimes. So hateful. <em>Dios mío</em>.”</p><p>Keith stood up. “I’m gonna go change.”</p><p>He shuffled to Lance’s room where his own bureau was, trying to not look like he was in a rush to get there. Lance didn’t follow him.</p><p>He painstakingly took off his shirt, cursing at the newfound aches.</p><p>Keith always thought he’d attack back if he ever was assaulted. He thought he’d use some of the self-defense techniques Shiro taught him ages ago. He thought he’d be able to fight back.</p><p>Granted, he’d never had to do so before. His predisposition to wear a lot of black and hide away in a corner drawing had ensured that no one messed with him at school. Having Shiro the Legend as your brother didn’t hurt, either.</p><p>It hadn’t occurred to him to fight, then. It just occurred to him to run.</p><p>When it felt like he couldn’t do that, he just let it happen.</p><p><em>Why</em>? <em>Why</em> did he just <em>stand there</em> and <em>let it happen</em>?</p><p>Keith let himself put a name to the feeling.</p><p><em>Fear</em>.</p><p>He was <em>scared</em>, dammit. He’s <em>always</em> been scared. He’s scared that things the guy said were <em>true</em>. He was scared that maybe he <em>deserved</em> it, each bruise on his back. He’s <em>always</em> been scared of not belonging, of not being <em>worth it</em> (to what? To who? He didn’t know, he’s never known). He’s scared of being <em>alone</em>, left behind, <em>deserted</em>.</p><p>He’d heard it before. Kids on the street, calling him names. Telling him he’d never be loved, he’d never find love. Telling him he was mentally ill or sick or a weeb or a f—</p><p>Keith knew he was being irrational. One person who hated him shouldn’t be more important than the small family he’s a part of, all of whom he knows loves him for who he is.</p><p>Still, sometimes he just wished he wouldn’t be targeted for things he couldn’t change. Sometimes, he wished he was someone different.</p><p>Keith tossed his shirt into their hamper. Closed his eyes. Wished to stop <em>goddamn thinking</em>, for once.</p><p>A knock came from the door. “Keith? Uh...did you OD in there?”</p><p><em>In. Out</em>. “Yeah.” He hated how broken he sounded. He hated how broken he was <em>feeling</em>.</p><p>“You were just taking too long to, uh--” Lance coughed. “Change. Shirts.”</p><p>“You ever wonder what--what’ll be like to be someone else?” Keith asked randomly. He felt like he might start crying again. He didn’t know anymore.</p><p>“What? No, not really, but--why’d you ask?” Lance took a step closer. Keith turned to face him, something telling him to hide his back or Lance might actually nuke the guy.</p><p>Keith shrugged. “Dunno.”</p><p>“Are--” Lance paused. His face was dry, no sign of the tears that had been there before. “Are you okay?”</p><p>Keith cracked a grin, feeling more water well up in his eye--<em>goddamn it</em>, he thought he’d stopped crying. “No. I’m not okay.” He reached up to rub at his eyes again, minding the bandage. “Fuck.” <em>In. Out</em>. “Life <em>hurts</em>, man. This shit hurts.”</p><p>Lance reached up to put his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “You know, I’m here for you, <em>ese</em>. You know Shiro is, too. And Matt and Hunk and Pidge, even when she’s being a little shit. You can talk to us.”</p><p>“I know,” Keith sighed. He let loose a breath of air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “It’s hard, sometimes. To remember.”</p><p>Lance’s gaze doesn’t break from his for a minute. His eyes are brown in the little light streaming into his room, but they still hold all the emotion in the world, like Lance has so much love that it’s woven into his irises. “Well, I guess we’ll have to remind you more often, then.” He clapped Keith’s shoulder, rather gently if Keith might add. “Now, we’re gonna put some vitamin E oil on those bruises you were hiding from me under that shirt. Warning: I may kiss ‘em again. You’re not the only bruised-up menace I’ve had to deal with in my life.”</p><p>Keith raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m the menace now?”</p><p>“Yep,” Lance popped the ‘p’, putting his other hand on Keith’s other shoulder and pushing him towards the bed. “ ‘Cmon, I got work to do.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Keith’s bruises healed over the next week of quarantine. Lance kept saying that the cut on his cheek made him look more like a tough, badass biker. Keith didn’t mind it.</p><p>Keith gave up on the System. It was too structured to fit the easy lifestyle he had settled into now.</p><p>He went back into his studio the day after everything, hunched over a three foot by four foot canvas. He’d done similar projects to this one before, but instead of a soldier facing off against an army of droids, he drew a battered boy facing a castle of gargoyles, leering and menacing. He had finished with even the most minute of details by the time his last bruise had faded away into the color of his skin.</p><p>He didn’t mean for Lance to see it, but Lance walked in with lunch in his hand while Keith was contemplating whether or not to add the barest amount of white to make the shadows seem deeper and tugged on Keith’s (glorified) ponytail until Keith stopped painting to eat.</p><p>Keith saw Lance staring at it as he slurped up his japchae (recipe courtesy of Shiro, who had a recipe, for some reason). He didn’t have to explain himself. He knew Lance knew what it was referring to.</p><p>He shoveled the rest of the plate of noodles into his mouth. It tasted exactly like how his dad used to make it.</p><p>Lance stood directly behind Keith, his hands on Keith’s shoulders. “Can I commission something off of you?”</p><p>“Sure, whaddya want?” Keith set the plate down on a nearby stool. He picked up a paintbrush with green and signed the bottom right corner, followed by the date.</p><p>“Can you paint my family?”</p><p>Keith paused. Turned around to look Lance in the eye. Contemplated.</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Keith has never painted a large family before.</p><p>He’d painted Shiro’s aunt and grandparents before, and that is what got him a 5 on the AP Art exam.</p><p>But nothing as personal as Lance’s <em>entire family</em>, with stories and personalities and <em>crippling expectations</em>.</p><p>He stared at the picture Lance had handed him, pencil already in hand. “Wow. Um. Wow.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Lance said from over his shoulder. “That’s my mom--” a matronly-looking woman, with dark curls framing her face and an apron around her waist-- “my dad--” basically an older version of Lance-- “my brothers and their wives, this one’s Marco and that’s Luis and that’s--, shit, I forgot their names but they’re very nice people--” two more older versions of Lance, except one of them (Luis?) had dark hair; the two wives were-- well, one was blonde and the other wasn’t-- “my sister Veronica--” now Keith had actually met Veronica once and was now sufficiently terrified of her-- “and my niece and nephew, Princess Plaxum and Ryner. Those are their nicknames, we just made ‘em up one day and they stuck. Now, <em>mi abuelo y abuela</em>--”</p><p>The picture was set in front of what Keith knew was Lance’s childhood home on the beach, but from where the family was standing, the roof was barely visible over the top of their heads. He figured it was about midday, probably during some holiday as all of them were dressed in nice attire. All of them wore the same blinding smile that Keith had categorized as uniquely Lance-- and to see Lance in the middle, arms thrown around his grandfather and his father, unbuttoned polo shirt revealed smooth, tanned skin--</p><p>Lance, whose love for his family radiated from every pore in his body.</p><p>Keith hadn’t been listening to Lance speak, but now he turned to look back at Lance and--</p><p>Lance's eyes were shining brightly with unshed tears, grinning as he described the family he missed, nearly three thousand miles away. Lance, hands gesturing wildly as he talked about his mother’s blanket, a project that she’d had to put away as she had to watch Plax and Ryner. Lance, laughing while retelling how his brother had spilled coffee all over the picadillo on accident. Lance, tracing the outline of Veronica as he told Keith about how he’d nearly broken his head jumping on the bed with her. Lance, who had so much of himself invested in his family it hurt Keith’s own heart.</p><p>Keith felt tears form in his eyes, but his mind was somewhere else.</p><p>
  <em>A forgotten shack in the middle of the desert, surrounded by distant pillars of hewn reddish rock from past rivers and storms and billowing winds.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His father’s last hug goodbye, before the shack turned empty and Keith had eaten all the food in the fridge, even the blasted vegetables.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Before he packed up his backpack and went out into the bleak landscape, mirages shimmering the bright blue of the sky as he tried to follow his father’s footsteps, somewhere out there but not coming home.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Being picked up by a big stranger on a motorcycle who turned out to be very kind whose name was Shiro, and who brought him to his apartment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Finding out his father was nowhere to be found but finding a home as Shiro’s new brother.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The first day he met Lance in college, a sassy, snarky, lanky boy who liked taking the mickey out of Keith’s haircut and red vinyl jacket.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lance, who became friends with him when Shiro got in a car crash that made him lose his arm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lance, who asked to split the rent of Keith’s new apartment when Keith had been “disenrolled” from Garrison University but with his diploma in hand. Lance, who essentially forced Keith to make friends with Pidge and Hunk, then the realization that Pidge’s Matt and Shiro’s Matt were the same person, and then the internship and then befriending Allura. Lance, who made sure Keith was eating and sleeping properly and taking breaks and drinking water and taking care of himself properly.</em>
</p><p>Lance, who kissed his forehead when he was “asleep.” Lance, who ran his hand through the same dark locks he made fun of for months. Lance, who touched his face so gently and smoothly as he spread face masks over Keith’s skin. Lance, who puts blankets over Keith when he falls asleep. Lance, who massaged the bruises out of Keith’s back and cleans the blood off his face. Lance, who hugs his shoulder blades too tight to be comfortable but welcoming nonetheless. Lance, whose skin glows even if the sun isn’t shining on it and Lance, whose eyes are a brilliant shade of blue that changes in the light and with his emotions and with the time of day, and Keith has given up on finding the exact shade because Lance holds all of the shades of blue in the universe in his irises.</p><p>Lance, who is stuck with him in quarantine as the virus rages on outside.</p><p>Lance, who feels like home.</p><p>Keith put down the photo. He can’t be overthinking this, what he’s about to do, because he might explode. He might never find the courage, not like right now. “Hey, Lance.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Keith pretended like he was wiping his hands on his ragged towel to avoid looking Lance in the eye.</p><p>He looked up and Lance was staring at him, concern in those ocean eyes. “Can I show you something?”</p><p>Lance shrugged. “Sure.”</p><p>Keith got up. Weaved past Lance and six other easels to get to his secret project, which leaned against the far wall. Pulled down the sheet.</p><p>He heard Lance gasp.</p><p>It’s taken up mostly by a large portrait of Lance himself in the middle in sunset tones. It’s a three-quarters pose, a remix of something Lance posted on Instagram from a sunset picture Hunk had taken outside of a Taco Bell.</p><p>Keith had arranged smaller head and upper body shots of Lance around the larger one, each unique and reminiscent of memories made before. Lance in a Polaroid and sticking his tongue at the camera. Lance smiling, Lance laughing, Lance pouting. Lance looking down, looking up, winking, smirking. Lance with a bronze sword over his shoulder and a fluorescent orange shirt. Lance as Lady Gaga. Lance in white armor with blue accents, squinting down the viewfinder of a futuristic laser gun.</p><p>Keith had even painted full body portraits of Lance, some whimsical and others not. Mermaid Lance, with blue and green iridescent scales and glowing patterns down his arms and small ones on his cheekbones. Lance washing Keith’s hands. Lance cooking in their kitchen. Lance playing video games. Lance working, hunched over at a desk and lit by his computer screen. Lance bending water. Surfer Lance. Disco Lance. Lance, dripping wet, with a towel slung low on his hips and one wrapped in a turban on his head. Lance as a DnD character.</p><p>Some of the portraits and smaller paintings weren’t fully flushed out yet or even drawn to completion. He didn’t think he’d reveal it so soon.</p><p>He was planning on filling the rest of the negative space with lyrics, but he hadn’t decided on a song that accurately fit his feelings yet.</p><p>“It’s not—” Keith took a deep breath. His nails ran along the hem of the sheet he was still holding and he was still kind of talking to the painting rather than Lance, but he couldn’t look behind him. “It’s not that great, well, yet, but— I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t even know where this even started, but—you. Lance—. I don’t even know if it’s the quarantine, but I realized you’re—I never had a home before. But with you, it’s like—I want this. I want this for the rest of my life, somehow, and—I don’t know what this is, but I still want it. Whatever couples have--Matt and Shiro—whatever they have, I realized that it’s kind of like what we have, except they have something greater, and I want that something greater with you.”</p><p>Keith felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned.</p><p>Lance kissed him, slowly and leniently, his hand moving up Keith’s neck to cup his cheek and the feeling pushing at his lungs exploded, lighting his skin on fire. The sheet fell out of Keith’s hands as his back hit the wall and he kissed back, his hands finding their way under Lance’s shirt and spreading across the curves and dips of his back.</p><p>This was greater than nice. This was mind-numbingly, amazingly awesome, like a rocket had taken Keith’s heart into outer space, going millions of miles an hour. This was the galaxy intumescent, reaching farther into the unknown as stars became streaks of light and planets formed and fell apart, born of supernovas and random collisions aligning.</p><p>He felt Lance’s other hand slide into his jean pocket and grinned into the kiss.</p><p>Lance pulled away, the corner of his mouth dipping downwards. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Keith replied, pressing a kiss to that corner of Lance’s mouth. “Your hand in my pocket. It’s cute.”</p><p>“You’re cute,” Lance murmured, pressing another kiss to Keith’s lips and coaxing the bottom lip between his teeth, biting down just enough for Keith to feel it. Keith whimpered. “You’re incredible.” He kissed Keith once, short and chaste and full of <em>more more more</em>. “I can’t believe you painted that. I can’t believe you painted me. I look like some kind of god or something.”</p><p>“This is what I see when I see you,” Keith whispered. He realized Lance had been crying. He untangled his hand from Lance’s shirt to caress Lance’s face and wipe away the salty tear tracks still staining his face.</p><p>Lance’s eyes bore into Keith’s, full of adoration — it was all for Keith and only Keith. “I wish you could see what I see when I see you.”</p><p>“I don’t know how to do this,” Keith confessed. “I don’t know how to do relationships, or love, or being a boyfriend—”</p><p>Lance kissed him (a very effective way of shutting both of them up) and pulled away just enough for him to speak, lips brushing against each other. “We have forever to learn. You’re in for the long haul, <em>mi amor</em>. I take relationships very seriously, ‘specially if you’re calling me <em>tuyo</em> already.”</p><p>Keith kissed him this time. He liked kissing Lance.</p><p>He pulled away to ask, “Is this when I should ask you on a date?”</p><p>Lance laughed, burying his face into Keith’s neck and sending a whole new flush of warmth to Keith’s face. “Kinda skipped some steps there, but okay. Yes. A date.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This was home.</p><p>This was more.</p><p>This was greater than Keith could ever imagine.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>This time, when he returned to painting the Red Lion, he knew what it was missing.</p><p>He slaved over it for several days until it was just right and the Red Lion stood proudly, fiery and blustery and angry and defensive, but also protective. She was defending her home and the people she loved. She put herself on the front lines because she couldn’t stand to let others sacrifice themselves for her when she could instead. She was intimidating because she wanted to keep the people she loved from harm, even if that made her seem impossible to please and impulsive in her decisions.</p><p>Keith painted another lion, this one blue and a counterpart to the Red Lion. This lion was reminiscent of home, of the consistency of oceans and the calming sound of waves crashing upon shore. The Blue Lion was a beating heart, holding people together and reminding them of their purpose in the universe. She was lively and levity, nimble and sharp. Her seeming unimportance next to the power that was the Red Lion was a facade for just how much both lions were needed in tandem with each other.</p><p>For there is not fire without water, or a fighter without a home to protect, or water without fire, or a home to remind a fighter what they are fighting for.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I want you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'll colour me blue</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anything it takes to make you stay</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Only seeing myself</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When I'm looking up at you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- BLUE, Troye Sivan ft. Alex Hope</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>YO @/K1SUM1SU ON INSTAGRAM MADE A <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CMcrsFHrOfv/?igshid=1p6wp6yew906f">COMIC</a> BASED ON THIS FIC AND ITS SO COOL AND I LOVE IT</p><p> </p><p>Translations:<br/>Spanish:<br/>• buenas noches, cariño: good night, dear<br/>• acere: something to call the homies/bro/dude, especially in Cuba<br/>• joder: fuck, general expletive<br/>• No lo parece, pendejo guapo: Doesn’t seem like it, you handsome dumbass<br/>• Jódete: fuck you<br/>• Carajo: fuck, general expletive<br/>• pastelitos: Cuban pastry<br/>• Serás pendejo si crees que no eres la persona más increíble que conozco: you’re a fucking fool if you don't think that you are the most amazing person that I know<br/>• lo fue: it was<br/>• nene: baby<br/>• mierda: fuck, general expletive<br/>• dios mío: my god<br/>• mi abuelo y abuela: my grandfather and grandmother<br/>• mi amor: my love<br/>• tuyo: yours<br/>Korean:<br/>• Neomu gomawoyo (너무 고마워요): thank you (casual/polite)<br/>• Anieyo (아니에요): you're welcome (casual/polite)<br/>• Jag-eun geojismal nom (작은 거짓말 놈): Little lying bastard<br/>• Geugeos-eun jeolleumbal-i byeonmyeong-ibnida (그것은 절름발이 변명입니다.): That's a lame excuse<br/> </p><p>did I work on this instead of the multichaptered fics I have unfinished? Yes. Was it worth it? FUCK YEAH !!!</p><p>Find all of my socials on <a href="https://hdnprplflwrs.carrd.co/">hdnprplflwrs.carrd.co</a>. LEAVE KUDOS AND COMMENT ANYTHING, I LITERALLY DON'T CARE, I LOVE COMMENTS. GIVE ME VALIDATION. thanks for coming to my ted talk.</p><p>ALWAYS STAY SAFE AND WEAR A MASK!!!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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